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%date 130820 00:00
Waking up on the morning of a night out is always portrayed as more of a mystery-thriller - occasionally laced with guilt - instead of something to look back on, if only a little distorted from the smirk that never leaves your face when you think about it. I always thought it was funny how a few glasses of alcohol always seems to make memories worse. Looking back on last night, I can't help but smile at the way my ostentatiously drunk stranger waltzed up to me, drink still in hand, and just straight up told me that he was going to get lucky tonight. He would've been nervous if he wasn't so drunk, I could tell, but I played along. He smiled slowly. As if to say Time had taken the night off and he was more than happy to do her a favor. Maybe he'd get one back. Though for being drunk he was awfully verbose. I liked that about him. He was a sailor of conversational seas, and mighty fine one at that. Somewhere between the second drink and leaving I decidedly put my arm around him and gave him a kiss. It was something about his hair. I don't remember now, but I recall then thinking about his hair. Or maybe it was his eyes.